


Foraminal Narrowing?

by verucasalt123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Slash, Wall Sex, sex related injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is not, in fact, getting old. He's just not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foraminal Narrowing?

The black balloons and gravestone cake on his birthday were really enough.

Sam didn’t stop there, though. Every time he got a chance, he made some crack about Dean having turned 40. Was that a gray hair right there by his temple? Was he sure he could carry that many bags of groceries? Had he gotten his AARP card in the mail yet?

It was getting old (no pun intended). And annoying. And Dean decided he was going to put a stop to all the “old dude” jabs right the fuck now.

Catching Sam off-guard as he walked into their bedroom, Dean pushed him up against the wall by the door, holding him there with a wicked gleam in his eye. And yeah, that was the look he was going for. Sam’s ‘deer in the headlights’ look, the one that reminded both of them who was in control in this particular room. 

“I’m gonna let you go long enough to get your clothes off, kid. Behave yourself.”

Dean moved back a step so he could strip while he watched Sam do the same, only Dean was taking his time and turning around to throw his clothes into the laundry hamper, while Sam quickly let his jeans , boxers and t-shirt hit the floor without moving more than three inches away from where Dean had left him. 

“Think you’ve got an old man on your hands, Sammy?:

“Dean, no, I was only joking, I-”

“Shut up. I’ll show you what you’ve got.”

Just like that, Sam was back against the wall, his breath taken away by Dean’s mouth clashing against his, teeth across his lips, one strong forearm holding him completely immobile. OK, so maybe he’d gone a little far with the age jokes. But it looked like he was going to get some pretty kick-ass sex out of the deal. He hissed audibly when Dean bit him on the shoulder, almost certain he’d broken the skin. Both of them were hard already, rutting against each other. 

All of a sudden, and Sam would not admit to whining at the loss of contact, Dean moved backward again. Sam didn’t dare to move an inch. 

Grabbing the lube from the bedside table, Dean tossed the bottle to Sam. “Get yourself ready. I’m just gonna stand here and watch. Conserve my strength, you know, so I don’t over-exert myself.” The smirk on his face was one hundred percent pure Dean, 20 year old Dean, 30 year old Dean, just fucking _Dean_. “Keep your eyes on me, Sammy.”

Flushing deeply, Sam did as he was told, slicking up his fingers and working them inside his entrance as quickly as he could without hurting himself. He certainly didn’t think this would be a good time for Dean to get impatient with him. Within a few minutes, he’d gotten relaxed around the three fingers inside himself and whispered, “I’m ready.”

“You think you’re ready.”

Dean moved toward him again, growling as he attacked Sam’s neck again. Sam was caught completely off-guard when he felt his feet leave the ground, his legs wrapped tightly around his brother’s waist. “Jesus Christ, Dean…”

Dean just chuckled as he held onto Sam as tightly as he could and slid his slicked-up cock into his ass with enough force that a framed photo on their bedroom wall ended up sliding sideways on its hanger. Sam cried out loudly, not thinking for a second that the people living in the townhouse adjoining theirs were getting some free entertainment. Dean didn’t let up, either. No one could ever have made Sam feel this way, like his sturdy six and a half foot tall frame was a fucking rag doll. He moaned and wailed and cursed as Dean fucked him right into the goddamn wall like he was a hundred and twenty pound girl. The complete loss of control and Dean’s expert thrusts hitting his prostate dead-on almost every stroke had him shaking and coming in five minutes, completely untouched except for the friction against his brother’s abs, spilling all over himself and possibly causing him to lose a second or two of consciousness. It wasn’t much more than a minute later when he felt Dean thrust even deeper, harder inside of him, then go completely still as he filled Sam with his own orgasm. 

Dean eased Sam’s feet back onto the floor, leaning up to whisper into his ear, “Too bad you’ve just got some old geezer here to keep you entertained.”

Sam was momentarily unable to stand without holding onto the wall, but regained his balance after a few moments and joined Dean in bed after they both cleaned up.

“I’m sorry, honest, you know I didn’t mean any of those jokes. Not that I’m complaining about you fucking me unconscious, but you don’t have anything to prove, Dean. You believe me, right?”

“Course I do, Sammy. Just thought it would be fun to illustrate.”

“Well, you damn well did that, babe.”

“Awwww, you still think I’m a babe, after all these years…”

“Cut it out, Dean”, Sam replied, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “I love you.”

“Love you too, baby boy. Now get some sleep.”

And sleep they did, both of them exhausted and sex-drunk. 

Thankfully, the next morning was a Sunday, no alarm clocks, no jobs to get to, just a nice lazy morning. Dean woke to take in the sight of his brother’s head lying on his chest, arm across his torso, like an extra blanket. It was such a sweet…sweet…oh sweet Jesus what the fuck? His back was screaming at him just from the two inches he’d moved to the side. How the…oh, no, no no no no no, please don’t let this be happening, he thought. He disentangled himself from Sam and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Maybe if he just stretched…a slight move to the left at his waist caused a wave of pain that made him want to throw up. 

Fuck fuck **motherfuck** , he was such an idiot. He couldn’t let on to Sam, he couldn’t possibly have Sam know that his little dominance display the night before had resulted in his throwing his back out so badly that he could barely move. He had to get up. A hot shower, that would take care of it, soothe whatever muscles were tight, surely that would be the answer. 

Dean stood and started to take a step, then realized his left foot was dragging, not cooperating in the whole “walk to the bathroom” process. That was something new. He’d had a sore back plenty of times, training as a kid, hunting as a young adult, heavy lifting at his construction job. But this whole weird leg-numbness and non-working foot thing was unfamiliar. He continued his crawling pace across the room but didn’t quite make it in time before Sam woke up and saw him, instantly alert and processing the situation.

“Dean. What the hell? Did something happen?” He was out of the bed and by his brother’s side in a flash. 

“Probably just a cramped up muscle or something, Sam, don’t get all doe-eyed on me. I just need a shower.”

Sam let it go at that, but was sitting upright and looking tense when Dean came out of the bathroom after half an hour not looking like it was any easier to move than it was when he went in.

“Come on, man, you have to tell me what this is. It’s not a fucking muscle cramp, don’t bullshit me.”

“Fine. My back hurts. Here”, he replied, pointing at the place where his lumbar and sacral spine met. “And my leg is numb, kind of tingly feeling, and my foot is, uh…”

“Dragging across the floor. Yeah. I can see that. Fuck, Dean, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. If I had any idea…”

“What? You think this is because of last night?” Dean didn’t look at his brother, because he didn’t want him to see that he already knew it was exactly because of last night.

“If I hadn’t been such an ass, making stupid jokes, Jesus, I’m such an idiot.”

“You? You’re the idiot, not the feeble old man who thought he could still pick up his 200 pound brother and fuck him into the wall?”

Sam cringed. He felt awful. Yeah, the sex had been great, but there was nothing in the world worth causing Dean this kind of pain. He got up instantly and started searching WebMD, stunned by the results he got by entering the symptoms that Dean had described.

“Dean. Man, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we’ve got to get you to a hospital. Emergency room. Seriously. Like, now.”

“The fuck are you _talking_ about, Sam? It’s just a pulled muscle or something, and fine, all right, I was showing off and it was stupid and maybe I’m too old for that shit, whatever. But I just need to rest. Lay down for a while. Get a heating pad or something.”

“No, that’s not going to work. You’ve got symptoms of radiculopathy, which could mean you’ve got damage to one of your vertebrae. Don’t give me any shit, if we go to the ER and they say it’s nothing, you can call me a girl for however long you want. But seriously, I’m not backing down on this. You’ve got to have it looked at, it could be serious.”

Dean knew the look he was getting from Sam. It was bitchface #34, ‘I’m not letting this shit go’. And he was well aware that bitchface #34 was not to be trifled with. Grudgingly, he agreed to be driven to the local emergency room (thankful for real live health insurance), hoping he’d get that opportunity to refer to Sammy as a girl for a really long time without repercussions. 

After some x-rays, an MRI (which took entirely too long and completely freaked him out), and a long wait for the results, Dean was sorely disappointed in the result. A harried-looking young doctor came back into his little ER cubby and shoved some films up onto a light-board on the wall. 

“Your MRI shows a bulging disc at L5-S1, which is in your low back. I’m going to refer you to an orthopaedic specialist, and I want you to see her within three days. I’ll call the office myself and let them know you need to be seen right away. This could be fixed with therapy and rest but if your disc is actually herniated, you could need surgery. I see from your paperwork that your job requires a fair amount of manual labor, that could be the cause, unless you’ve had some kind of incident lately-”

Both brothers vehemently denied any kind of **incident** , then sat and stared for just a moment. It’s not like neither of them had had surgery before. The repair of a broken bone, more than once for each of them. Sam had his tonsils out when he was eight, and Dean had his appendix removed at age ten. But back surgery? Surgery on Dean’s fucking _spinal cord_? 

The doctor quickly tried to assuage their evident anxiety. “It’s not a certainty, only a possibility. Go see Dr. Summers and let her decide.”

It was a tense, anxious two days before the appointment, Dean having to call out from work and Sam frantic every minute he was away from his brother. But once they got to the specialist, things evened out a bit. She was a perky blonde who looked younger than either of them, and she sent Dean for a CT scan of his lumbar spine. Holding the results in her hand, she gave them reassuring news. “Your disc is not herniated, it’s bulging, though, and definitely causing some foraminal narrowing – pressure on your spinal nerves. I’m going to refer you to a physical therapist to see if exercises will help. And today, I’m going to give you an injection, just cortisone, it might be uncomfortable but nothing cringe-worthy, certainly for someone like you who’s in such stellar physical condition.”

Dean looked over at Sam and beamed, a triumphant look on his face, for just a second.

“Especially considering your age.”

Beaming ceased. Dean’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the doctor. Sam felt worse than he’d felt in about five years. Goddamn him and his stupid jokes and his brother’s pathological need to prove himself. But mostly himself. Sam settled into it. He was an asshole, an insensitive prick, and he’d goaded Dean into doing something that caused a really serious physical injury. 

“In the meantime, I’m hoping there’s something at your job that‘s less physically strenuous, at least for a few weeks. No overexerting yourself”, she said, glancing between Dean and Sam pointedly, “ _at all_ , for the next six weeks. Come back and see me again after that, and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

Luckily, Dean’s employer was more than understanding, giving him a week of paid time off and then letting him come back to work into a supervisory capacity. The man had been thinking that Dean Winchester would be useful in a managerial role for a while, and this was a chance to test out his theory. It turned out that Dean, though happier using his body to earn a living, was more than competent at making plans and seeing that instructions were followed. 

In the following weeks, Dean dutifully attended his physical therapy sessions three times a week, though they were almost unbearably painful. He often exited the facility covered in sweat and close to tears, but he endured the exercises and the traction because he knew the alternative would be an operation that might fix him, but had a chance of permanently disabling him as well. It was terrifying.

For his part, Sam doted on his brother as much as he could get away with. He still carried an incredible amount of guilt for his role in what they both knew had caused this whole situation. God, he wanted to do something, _anything_ to make up for it, but he couldn’t. Not really. Except for quit making stupid ass jokes about his brother being old, which he obviously did, immediately. 

Six weeks later, back to see Dr. Summers again, she seemed pleased with the results of her examination. “Guess you’ve kept up with your therapy, home exercise too, looks like.”

“Yep. I’m a fantastic patient”, Dean replied, that little spark of a flirt in his eyes, which never bothered Sam anymore, not after all this time. 

“Well, for now, everything looks good. Negative straight-leg raise bilaterally, butI still don’t want you lifting anything more than 25 or 30 pounds, at least for another month or two. And keep up those home exercises, or I’ll send you back to that PT place and leave you at their mercy. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am”, Dean answered, pleased as punch. No surgery. 

Sam was thinking the same thing. No surgery. Thank Chuck, Cas, what the fuck ever, no surgery. 

He did feel the need to ask a slightly awkward question, though. “As far as activity level…”

The doctor didn’t even let him finish, seeing the flush on his cheeks. “Take it easy. I mean it. But you’re not restricted to holding hands or anything”, she answered with a knowing grin. 

For a while, Sam was still hover-y. “Are you sure that’s not more than twenty five pounds?”, he asked, when Dean decided their living room bookcase should be shifted farther down to the right side of the room. “What do they have you doing at work?” was a question Dean had to answer at least three times a week. 

It took a while, but with the changes in his job and the home exercises he kept up with, the pain lessened, the feeling in his leg came back and his foot started cooperating with that whole _walking_ thing again. Dean still had bad days, nights when he came home unable to do anything but lie in the recliner with his legs propped up. On those days, Sam cooked dinner (well, he heated up grocery-store stir-fry or ordered takeout) and brought a plate for Dean to balance on his legs. He tried once to feed him, but that didn’t go over so well.

But the nights when he got to lie back in bed and just enjoy the feeling of Sam’s talented mouth and tongue on his dick…those were nice. Real nice. Even when they did have sex, for a while it was Sam on top every time, doing all the work, reminding Dean of his lifting restrictions. 

There were no more “I am 40, hear me roar” moments like the night before all of this started, but that was all right. Dean figured he could wait until Sam turned 40 and see what happened then.

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt asking for Dean giving Sam some serious rough sex as a result of Sam making jokes about getting old, but he hurts himself in the process.


End file.
